


traitor's mend

by adrianicsea



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Edmund Gets Christmas Gifts, Gen, Interlude, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 22:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19877332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianicsea/pseuds/adrianicsea
Summary: It's their first Christmas in Narnia since the defeat of the White Witch, and all through the castle, not a creature is stirring... except for Edmund, who has trouble looking at winter the same way he once did.





	traitor's mend

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this isn't the Narnia fic update most of you were probably looking for from me, but it's an idea I've had for a long while. While I understand Edmund really didn't deserve any presents when the rest of the Pevensies were given theirs, I always found it sad and a bit cruel that he's the only sibling left without any magical gifts of his own for the rest of the series. This was my attempt to remedy that-- and to explore how he might have felt about Christmas so close in the aftermath of everything that happened with Jadis. I hope you all enjoy it!

The halls of Cair Paravel were quiet as Edmund padded through them, a too-large cloak thrown over his narrow shoulders to keep him warm in the draft. His footsteps fell quietly on the marble floors, muffled by the thick fur-lined slippers he wore as he ambled down the hall towards the nearest kitchen. At the end of the hall, there was a door opening out onto one of the castle balconies. Edmund paused at the door for a long moment, his brow creasing in contemplation, and then he stepped closer to pull at the brass door handle. The door itself was made of ancient, heavy wood, and Edmund had to tug at it with all his might for a good few seconds before it finally swung open.

Immediately, a salty sea breeze blew down the hallway, causing the flames of the candles lining it to gutter and flicker. Edmund shivered and frowned as he looked outside. This balcony, like so many of Cair Paravel’s, overlooked the Eastern Sea, but in the depth of winter as they were, the beach and the ocean both looked grey and forlorn. The cold light of the full moon, hanging high in the sky overhead, only made the scene look lonelier. Just looking at it made Edmund shudder again, and he hurried to close the door. He had only wanted to see the angle of the moon; judging by its position in the sky, it was almost precisely midnight.

“Happy Christmas,” Edmund mumbled to himself. He pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders and turned to the staircase curling downward next to the balcony doors to continue on his way to the kitchen. The stairs were just as quiet and empty as the hall had been—no doubt, the rest of the castle’s residents were having no trouble sleeping. There had certainly been no sign of life when Edmund had crept past the bedchamber doors of Peter, Susan, and Lucy earlier. Edmund slipped on a loose flagstone on one of the stairs, and as he hurriedly caught himself on the banister and pulled himself upright, a spiteful little voice in his head began hissing at his misfortune. Of _course_ Edmund was the only one awake and alone on Christmas Eve. Nobody else had anything to worry about. For them, Christmas and winter were a time of rest and happiness, not a reminder of—

_Don’t let’s start with that,_ Edmund thought. Before Aslan had left their coronation that spring, he had reminded Edmund that the past was the past, and to live in its pall was to forfeit the present and even the future to shadow. Edmund tried his best to heed Aslan’s words, but there were times when it was easier said than done.

Edmund reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into the South Hall. This hallway was longer and grander than the one on the floor above—by necessity, as it was connected to both the Great Hall and the Throne Room. But at the end of the hallway, there was another, humbler wooden door which led to the South Kitchen. The door was slightly open, and Edmund could see the faint orange glow of a fireplace in the room beyond. He frowned to himself. The kitchen was never open at night, he knew from all his past nighttime excursions. Perhaps someone else was awake after all? Edmund shifted one hand beneath his cloak to feel for the small pommel of his dagger. The rational part of him knew he should likely never need it in his own castle, but the boy in him, the Witch’s prisoner, was not so easily convinced. After confirming that his dagger was there if he needed it, Edmund began creeping forward towards the kitchen door. As he grew closer, he could catch the faint smell of woodsmoke from the fire, alongside a heavy, spicy, comforting sort of smell. When he reached the door, Edmund peered inside, careful not to disturb the door itself. Inside, he saw a mound of brown fur moving back and forth, mumbling busily to itself. Edmund relaxed and stepped inside, releasing his loose grip on his dagger.

“Hullo, Mrs. Beaver,” he said. The Beaver in the kitchen startled, its tail raising in alarm as its fur bristled out, but then it turned and its kind, beady eyes met Edmund’s.

“Oh! Hullo, King Edmund. You gave me quite the fright.” Mrs. Beaver chuckled and raised a paw to her mouth. Once she had settled, she returned to her business—whatever it was. Now that Edmund was in the kitchen, he could smell something subtle and sweet that he hadn’t caught in the hallway. There were also two mugs on a nearby table. Edmund approached the table and climbed up into the accompanying chair to see inside the mugs. One of them was full of milk, while the other one was full of something brown in color. It looked very thick, and there was an exquisite smell coming from it.

“Sorry for frightening you, Mrs. Beaver. And just ‘Edmund’ is fine, if you please.” Edmund settled in the chair, his feet barely touching the kitchen floor. Idly, he wondered if he would ever grow into all of the clothing and furniture that had become his when he was crowned. “Is Mr. Beaver awake too?”

“Oh, no, not in the slightest.” Mrs. Beaver shook her head to herself as she worked. Edmund watched her begin rolling out a mound of dough into a sheet with a rolling pin. “You know him, he’s always the first to bed and the last one awake.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Edmund smiled at that. “I was only asking because, well—I see you have two mugs here. Who are they for?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Beaver set her rolling pin aside and turned to look at Edmund. “Well, the hot chocolate is mine, and the milk is for Father Christmas.”

Edmund blinked and was quiet as he absorbed this information. Mrs. Beaver, never content to let silence sit, gave him a kind smile. “Would you like me to make you some chocolate too?”

“No thank you,” Edmund replied hurriedly. “I don’t much care for sweets. Perhaps some tea, though--?”

Mrs. Beaver smiled and nodded.

“Of course,” she said. “Just as soon as I get these biscuits cut and baking, I’ll get cracking on your tea.”

Edmund watched as Mrs. Beaver began rustling around in the drawers and cabinets of the kitchen. Eventually, she produced a series of curious metal shapes from one drawer and bundled them up in her paws. Edmund spotted a little man and a snowflake among them before Mrs. Beaver turned around and walked back to the dough, into which she started pressing the shapes.

“Mrs. Beaver,” Edmund asked, “what are those biscuits for?”

“Why, they’re for Father Christmas, of course!”

Again, Edmund was quiet. Mrs. Beaver pressed a few more shapes into the biscuit dough before she stilled. When she turned back to look at Edmund this time, he saw a sad sort of realization in her eyes.

“Haven’t you ever made biscuits and milk for Father Christmas before, love?”

Edmund shook his head.

“Back home—back in England,” Edmund said, quickly correcting himself, “we were under wartime rations for most of my life. There were no biscuits or milk to spare…”

Edmund trailed off, and Mrs. Beaver sadly tutted to herself. She hastily finished the biscuits and set them on a metal sheet over the fire to bake, and then she set a kettle of water on a hot stone to boil for tea. It didn’t take long at all for the kettle to begin whistling. Edmund began to stand up so he could pour the tea, but Mrs. Beaver beat him to it, pouring a heavy earthen mug full of water and handing it to Edmund along with a small cloth bag full of sweet, spicy-smelling tea leaves.

“There you are, dear, drink up.”

As Edmund lowered the tea bag into the water to steep, Mrs. Beaver scrambled up into the chair neighboring his. She took the mug of hot chocolate in her paws and took a long drink before setting it aside on the table once more.

“Once the biscuits are done baking, you can help me decorate them, if you’d like,” Mrs. Beaver continued. She stretched one webbed paw across the tabletop towards Edmund. “Then we’ll go set them under the tree in the Great Hall for Father Christmas.”

“Perhaps,” Edmund said, though he wasn’t sure he’d take her up on her offer. Still, he offered Mrs. Beaver a shy smile and patted her paw with his hand. “That would be nice.”

“Of course, Edmund.” Mrs. Beaver withdrew her paw to return to her chocolate, and Edmund removed the bag from his tea and began sipping it. The flavor was thick with fruit and honey and just a hint of spice—Edmund thought it tasted the way Christmastime would taste.

“To be honest, I’m just excited that we’re able to celebrate Christmas now.” Mrs. Beaver chuckled into her mug. “I’ve always wanted to, but none of us Narnians could before, on account of—”

But Mrs. Beaver studied Edmund’s face and stopped midsentence. Edmund swallowed and tried to control his expression; he must have accidentally let his fear and guilt show for a moment.

“—well, anyways, we can celebrate _now,”_ Mrs. Beaver finished, “and what a blessing that is. Oh!” Edmund watched as she suddenly started up towards the sheet of biscuits. “It smells like these are finished.”

While Mrs. Beaver hunted around the kitchen for an oven mitt to pick up the biscuit sheet, Edmund slid out of his chair and crept back out of the kitchen into the hall. Part of him felt guilty for leaving Mrs. Beaver without saying goodbye, but it was a small part. Ever since everything that had happened last winter, Edmund couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Mrs. Beaver secretly harbored a grudge against him for everything he had done. He’d just apologize in the morning and tell her that he had gotten too sleepy to stay awake and help her decorate the biscuits.

Edmund was halfway down the hallway back to the stairs, planning on returning to his room to try and sleep, when he paused and turned to face the massive doorway leading into the Great Hall. The large, vaulted glass roof over the Hall allowed moonlight to flow down into the chamber, washing everything in ghostly silver light. Edmund could also see a faint gold glow of light emanating from one end of the Hall, where the castle’s main Christmas tree had been put up and decorated.

As he stood in the hallway, studying the scenery of the Hall, Edmund suddenly saw a large, looming shadow rise up along the wall. It was human-shaped, but huge, and it was looked like it was being cast from the same direction that the tree was in… Edmund briefly considered raising the alarm, or going to wake Peter and Susan, but he quickly decided to see if he couldn’t gather more information on the mysterious figure first.

Shuffling along carefully in his slippers, Edmund moved step by step towards the entrance to the Great Hall, until he was able to properly see into the room. The large man-shaped shadow belonged to a man, after all, and he almost looked bigger than his shadow was. He had a full head of flowing, silver hair which seemed to glow white in the moonlight. He wore a large, magnificent outfit of red, trimmed with thick, white fur, and Edmund could just make out the pommel of a sword on the man’s belt. The man turned, and Edmund saw that he also had a long silvery beard, one that reached down nearly to his magnificent leather belt. Edmund gulped as he realized who the man was. The man startled at the noise, and Edmund shrank back to hide against the wall.

“Who’s there?” called Father Christmas. “It’s alright, there’s no need to fear… I’m a friend of Aslan’s, don’t you know?”

Edmund felt his heart hammering in his chest as he slowly, hesitantly stepped away from the wall and out into the Great Hall. When Father Christmas’ eyes landed on him, his blue eyes twinkled as he smiled, but it did nothing to ease Edmund’s fears.

“Why, hullo there,” Father Christmas said.

“H-hullo,” Edmund answered.

“And who might you be?”

Edmund paused before he answered, and when he did, his voice was low and ashamed. Head ducked, ears burning, he said, “I’m Edmund, sir. Edmund Pevensie.”

Edmund heard the thudding sounds of bootsteps moving across the Hall, and then the shadow of Father Christmas loomed directly over him. Slowly, he looked up, and there was Father Christmas kneeling in front of him to look him in the eye.

“It’s nice to meet you, Edmund Pevensie,” Father Christmas said. This close, Edmund could see the kind crinkles in his eyes and the pleasant flush spread across the man’s face. He might have looked leaner and more intimidating than he did in the shop windows and greeting cards in England, but there was no mistaking the jolliness of his expression. Edmund found his spirits raising.

“It’s nice to meet you too, sir,” Edmund said. He reached out his right hand for Father Christmas to shake. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, I didn’t realize you were… Well, I just couldn’t sleep, and Mrs. Beaver made me some tea, and…”

Father Christmas chuckled and carefully took Edmund’s hand in his own to shake it. Edmund’s hand was dwarfed by Father Christmas’, and he was secretly quite relieved when Father Christmas dropped it a moment later.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that, Edmund,” Father Christmas said. “In fact, I’m rather glad you found me on your own. I had hoped I might meet you, since I wasn’t able to last Christmas.”

Edmund’s cheeks burned with shame, and he began to lower his head once more, until he realized what Father Christmas had said.

“I—you wanted to meet me?” Edmund asked. “What for?”

Father Christmas stood tall once more.

“Why, to give you your gifts, of course!”

And he threw open his cloak. Edmund saw that the inside of it was lined with pockets, and as Father Christmas began digging through each of them one by one, a small smile crept onto Edmund’s face.

“You brought me gifts?”

“Of course I did, Edmund!” Father Christmas paused in his search to give Edmund a broad smile. “After all, you’ve been a very good boy this year.”

“This year, maybe,” Edmund replied, before he could stop himself. “But what about last year? I—”

Father Christmas raised his free hand to his lips and held up one finger there. Edmund obeyed and fell silent.

“What’s in the past is past, Edmund,” Father Christmas said. “And if your behavior this year is any indication, I would say you’ve learned your lesson.”

Edmund’s eyes fell to the elegant pattern in the tile at his feet as he considered this. After some thought, he looked up at Father Christmas, raised his chin, and gave him a resolute nod.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Father Christmas smiled back down at Edmund before he resumed digging through his pockets. It didn’t take long before his face lit up, and with a small “Ah!” of satisfaction, he began pulling something from his pocket. Edmund watched as a sort of pommel appeared from within the pocket—then a length of dark wood—it was far too long to have possibly fit inside Father Christmas’ cloak, unless the cloak was magic—?

Finally, Father Christmas held in his hand a staff that looked to be nearly as tall as Edmund himself was. At the head of the staff was a lion’s head pommel that looked identical to the pommels on Rhindon and on Lucy’s dagger, Lionfang, save for its silver color. Father Christmas held the staff out for Edmund, and he gingerly took it in his hands. It felt solid and heavy in his grip, and in his hands, he could see that it was made of sturdy oak.

“This gift has waited a long time for you, Edmund,” Father Christmas said. “A balanced weapon for the most just among the Golden Monarchs.” Edmund looked up at Father Christmas, and the great man offered him an amused smile. “Don’t worry, I’m told you’ll grow into it.”

Edmund couldn’t hold back the laugh that bubbled out of him at that.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He ran his hands up and down the length of the staff. There was a curious silver ring around it, about three-fourths down its length—Edmund prodded at it, and the staff began to pull apart in his hands. He looked up at Father Christmas, who nodded down at him.

“Go on, take a look!”

Edmund pulled further, and the staff’s two pieces came apart to reveal two small, narrow blades. The larger of the two was a sword, shorter and lighter than Rhindon but just as sharp and formidable. The smaller blade was a dagger of middling size that glinted like a razor in the light of the moon. Both blades had a slightly blue tinge to their steel that Edmund had never seen in a weapon before. After taking a moment to study the blades, he carefully pushed them back together, and they became a staff once more.

“They’re beautiful,” he said to Father Christmas.

“I’m told the blades were forged long ago by the stars themselves,” Father Christmas said, “from crystallized Star-Tears which fell to Narnia thousands of years ago. The staff is made from wood said to come from a forest that connects all realms—see how sturdy and supple it is?”

Edmund nodded in awe as he regarded the staff in his hands. Did he really deserve something like this? It almost sounded too special to accept; he had half a mind to turn it down, but then he remembered his mum once telling him that it was rude to refuse or return a gift, especially a Christmas gift. Instead, he took the staff in one hand and stood with it upright at his side as though it were a walking stick.

“Thank you, Father Christmas,” Edmund said. “Tell me, does this weapon have a name?”

“The sword is known as Winter’s End, and the dagger is Moonglimmer. But the staff that they form has never had a name of its own. Perhaps you would like to give it one, Sir Edmund Wandbreaker?”

Edmund considered the staff for a long moment. With its blades hidden, the staff itself looked very nondescript—the only remarkable thing about its appearance was its silver lion-head pommel. When the staff’s looks were not inspirational, Edmund took a careful step back from Father Christmas, gripped the staff in both hands, and gave it an experimental swing. To his surprise, the heavy staff moved quickly and fluidly through the air, as though it really had been made for him. It was still too big for him, and he would have to train with it, but Edmund could feel that it would serve him every bit as well as his siblings’ gifts had served them. He set the staff down again and looked up at Father Christmas once more.

“It shall be known as Traitor’s Mend,” Edmund said. Father Christmas’ expression grew serious, and he gave Edmund another nod.

“And a very fine name it is.” Then, his face breaking into a smile again, he continued, “Now, are you ready for your second gift?”

Edmund gaped up at Father Christmas.

“You mean I get _two?!”_

Father Christmas laughed at that, a deep belly laugh like the sort Edmund had always imagined him to have.

“Don’t be so surprised! Your brother and sisters each received two presents as well, did they not?”

After a few more seconds of rummaging through his pockets, Father Christmas produced a small parcel and held it out to Edmund again. After carefully lying Traitor’s Mend down on the floor, Edmund unwrapped the waxy yellowed paper with gentle fingers. Inside, he found a small, nondescript leather-bound book. The front cover read _The Voice of Justice_. Edmund had always been a prodigious reader, and his eyes lit up with joy, but when he flipped through the pages, he found them to be completely blank.

“Sir, this is a beautiful book,” Edmund said as he looked up at Father Christmas, his freckled brow creased in concentration. “And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m just a bit confused. All the pages are empty.”

“Indeed they are,” Father Christmas replied. “Allow me to explain. This book is magical. It has the ability to truthfully answer any question that is written in its pages. You may also write a statement inside its pages, and the book will tell you whether that statement is truthful or dishonest.” He pointed down at the title of the book. “Hence the name.”

Edmund looked down at the book with a renewed sense of wonder and gratitude.

“That’s incredible,” he breathed. “Thank you, sir…”

“But of course,” Father Christmas answered. “Just be mindful of how you use the _Voice,_ Edmund. Once all the pages are completely filled, you will nevermore be able to use its power, and there isn’t another book like it on all the Narnian continent.”

Edmund swallowed, and suddenly, his hands felt a bit clammy. He was quick to carefully tuck the book into the pocket of his nightshirt.

“Thank you, sir,” Edmund said again. He drew his cloak closer around himself and picked up his staff. “Really, thanks very much…”

Father Christmas reached down to set one large, warm hand on Edmund’s shoulder.

“You deserve it. You really were a terrific boy this year, Edmund.” Father Christmas smiled down at him. “Happy Christmas.”

As small and shy as he felt, Edmund managed to return Father Christmas’ smile.

“Happy Christmas.”

Father Christmas withdrew his hand and gave Edmund a conspiratorial wink.

“Now, I think it’s time you get to bed, don’t you? I have to finish setting out the gifts for everybody else before morning comes.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Edmund headed back towards the doorway to the South Hall, his slippered feet moving silently across the tile. Just as he was about to step into the hall, though, he paused and turned back to Father Christmas.

“Oh, Father Christmas, sir—Mrs. Beaver is making milk and biscuits for you in the kitchen. I’m sorry they weren’t ready for you yet, but if you just wait a bit or come back later—”

Father Christmas laughed and waved a hand in dismissal.

“Mrs. Beaver’s generosity is an inspiration to us all. Thank you for letting me know, Edmund.”

“Of course, sir.”

Edmund gave Father Christmas one final nod, and then, gripping his staff tighter, he said, “Well—good night.”

And then Edmund shuffled back down the hallway and up the staircase. The hallways were just as dark and cold as they had been an hour ago, but Edmund found that they felt cozier now, and he noticed the wreaths and garlands of gold and green ribbon that ran the length of the halls and covered the doorways. He smiled to himself as he reached his bedchamber and reentered it, quietly closing the heavy door behind him.

There was really no good place in his bedchamber for Edmund to store Traitor’s Mend—Peter had wanted to keep weapon racks in all of their bedchambers, just in case of emergencies, but Susan had forbade it, and Peter had sullenly agreed, mostly to avoid the indignity of another mundane row between the Golden Monarchs. So Edmund leaned his staff upright against one of the tall bookshelves lining the walls of his room. He cast his cloak aside to lay across the chair of his writing desk, set his dagger on the night-table, and then climbed up into his too-tall, too-large bed.

After tucking himself beneath the thick pile of furs and cotton sheets, Edmund dug into the pocket of his nightshirt and removed the _Voice of Justice_ to look at it. He slowly ran his thumb down the spine of the book, then began flipping through the pages again, slower this time. It was hard to tell how many there were—there seemed to be more than a hundred, but definitely under five hundred. Edmund swallowed again. He would have to be very judicious in how he used the book. He couldn’t use it for anything foolish, or anything that could easily be proven or disproven. Maybe he and the others could set up some sort of court system like in England, with barristers and lawyers…? And they could use the _Voice of Justice_ in special situations? It was such a precious gift, and yet Edmund wanted to try it right away.

Edmund closed the book, and he was just leaning over to place it on the night-table by his dagger when he saw a quill and inkwell sitting on the table as well. He hesitated another moment before taking out the quill and sitting up in bed. Edmund flipped the book open to its first page and stared at it for what felt like hours, wondering if the question he had in mind was really a worthy one to ask. Finally, he made up his mind, and he lowered the quill to the paper. Carefully making his handwriting as small and as neatly as he could to conserve space on the page, he wrote:

_Is it true that I, Edmund Pevensie, am forgiven by Narnia for betraying her people and my own family?_

Edmund set the quill aside in its inkwell and gazed down at the book in his lap. Nothing happened—the question he had written sat there on the page, glistening black in the low firelight of his room. But then, just as Edmund’s heart began to sink, he saw handwriting appear on the page of the book, written in golden ink by an invisible, delicate hand.

_It is true._

Edmund swallowed and felt his eyes begin to grow very misty. He gingerly reached out one hand and touched the words on the page to find that the ink had already dried, no doubt by magic.

“I am forgiven,” Edmund repeated to himself. He sniffled, smiled to himself, and carefully closed the _Voice of Justice_. After placing it on his night-table, he bundled himself up beneath his furs and closed his eyes.

For the first time that winter, Edmund slept soundly. His final thoughts before falling asleep were excited ones of sharing the news of his gifts with his siblings the next morning.


End file.
